


Heaven Help a Boy Who Falls in Love

by distantpast



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Artist Draco Malfoy, Bullying, Capslock, Howlers (Harry Potter), Hurt/Comfort, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Slow Burn, but first a lot of hurt, draco is a sad little boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantpast/pseuds/distantpast
Summary: The cool tiles against Draco’s back did nothing for his sweaty palms and hot cheeks. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, moving them in circles and scrunching his eyes closed. A phrase that came to mind was ‘the bigger they are the harder they fall’ and, to put it lightly, Draco had just fallen. Hard.





	1. Peacocks and Howlers

**Author's Note:**

> pretty excited about this, I'm not sure how often I'll update but I think that it'll end up being three or four chapters maybe. I got a beta this first time, but I'd like to get an actual reader to beta and not someone just in my friend group so if you're interested please comment!

The cool tiles against Draco’s back did nothing for his sweaty palms and hot cheeks. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, moving them in circles and scrunching his eyes closed. A phrase that came to mind was ‘the bigger they are the harder they fall’ and, to put it lightly, Draco had just fallen. Hard.

So hard that he’d taken to locking the doors of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. And he normally hated interacting with her and her piercing squeaky voice, but she’d turned out very helpful for the moment being. It’s not like he could go to any of his friends for a pick me up and a pat on the back right now... even if he’d wanted to. Draco imagined that they’d turn him away very quickly. Another hiccup of breathy sobs emerged from his throat as he pondered that thought, and he once again unsuccessfully tried to smother them with a snot-covered hand.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened Draco, but I could go get someone who already knows what happened? Does Professor Snape know perhaps?”

The blond boy pulls his wet face from his hands and shakes his head no.

“No, Myrtle, I’ll go to him later. I just need- need to pull myself together. I’ll tell you w-what happened in just a moment.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Draco dragged his fingers across his eyelids, pressing down harshly. He slumped further down the wall, letting the tile pull up his untucked shirt. He shivered at the contact. He tried to think of anything other than that fiasco, and it took a lot of digging, but he eventually found in the back of his mind, lingering thoughts of the Malfoy collection of peacocks.

He thought of them fondly, though it wasn’t often he was permitted to see them. His father had usually repeated a seemingly memorized mantra to him at his requests:  
“I am sure you know that our prized collection of peacocks is for breeding purposes only, they are not pets for you to play with.”

Sometimes though, on very special occasions, when his father went out on business and left them both alone, his mother would shirk this rule, and take an ecstatic Draco out to the gardens and pen to view the peacocks immaculate feathers. He often watched them with a story in mind, giving them names and having them go about as actors. As he grew older, his mother suggested taking a sketch pad with him and drawing the birds. It became his favorite thing to do. He soon took to drawing flora and fauna of all sorts. He drew the trees that brushed the Malfoy Manor, and the flowers that their house elf so desperately tried to insist were weeds as she plucked them from the ground.

One day though, his mother sat him down in the kitchen, and asked Draco to sketch her. At this prospect Draco let out a breathy gasp, and his mother smiled down on him, calling over a house elf with a quill. His fingers were very short and fat at that time, and he dropped the quill, almost spilling the ink on several occasions when studying his mother's face. She took a typical portrait posture for Draco, but Draco did not draw a typical portrait. He scribbled down lines, making sure to take in every one of his mother's features, good and bad. He drew her eyes with life, as she looked at him, but he also drew her bags, which she carried with her as evidence of her attentive and hardworking nature.

The house elves were trying to inform the two of dinner when Draco finished, ink staining even his face. He held it up for his mother, and she looked at him with more joy than Draco had ever seen displayed on her face in his life.

“My little dragon, it’s beautiful.”

She threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him deep into her chest. He’d always loved to hear her breathing, and feel her chest rise up and down; a constant comforting force. For a moment or two, it was just Draco and his mother, the chatter of cooking elves a faint mumble in the background. But, and Draco frowns and cradles his head in his hands as he remembers this, his father’s footsteps cut through the pleasant stupor. His mother pulled her arms away from Draco, and he stares up to meet his father’s eyes. His eyes are a piercing gray, and Draco can’t stand to look long, as he lowers his gaze to his feet.

“Narcissa.”

“Yes, Lucius?”

“We will talk about this hobby you’ve forced on my son in my office tonight.”

His mother lowered her gaze to her hands as well, and she pulls her hand across Draco’s shoulder as she moves into the kitchen. Draco’s stare is pulled from his feet as his father mutters,  
“I suggest you follow your mother and take your place at the table as well.”

Later that night Draco lingered near the always locked door of his father’s office. He wasn’t able to make out many words through the thick door, he heard his father's vitriol filled voice and his mother’s small, almost one word responses. But he was able to make out one statement of his father, if only because it was nearly a shout:  
“I will not have our son being TAINTED by USELESS mudblood HOBBIES.”

Draco clenched his fist at this particular memory, the scared feelings of his younger-self manifesting as a deep seated anger in the now fifteen year old boy. His anger was not at his father for taking away his drawing, but at treating his mother so harshly. She never deserved that, not once.

“Okay Myrtle, I’ll tell you.”

From across the room she perked up, perching her elbows on her knees and leaning forward with her chin in her hands.

“I- I got a howler this morning.”

Now that was a pretty typical reason for someone to run from the Great Hall in a fit, and usually all of said person's friends would just pretend to forget the incident, but Draco’s situation was not like that. Draco received a howler from his father.

“What did it say?”

“It was my father, and he- he disowned me.”

Draco was met with silence, and the ghostly presence of a hand on his back. The way Myrtle looked at Draco told him she knew she didn’t need to hear anymore.

Since the night Draco had drawn his mother, he’d realized how much he loved drawing people, and not just flowers and peacocks. He hadn’t let his father’s condemnation stop him from drawing his mother, and in this one regard he’d kept freedom from his father’s will. He hid all of the parchment he drew on under a floorboard beneath his bed, or even just burned drawings as he finished them, but he always kept drawing.

When he got to Hogwarts, things changed. He now had a whole school he could choose from to draw, and that idea excited then ten year old Draco beyond belief. He never broadcasted his skill for fear of his father’s connections, but he kept at the sides, sketching small interactions between his classmates. Sometimes he would sketch a person multiple times, he had drawn each of his friends at least three times each, but he did prefer to spread it around.

If only Draco had perhaps, by some miracle, been a different year than Harry goddamn Potter, or even just had less classes with him, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. In third year, Draco ended up developing, a sort of an, artistic interest in the Gryffindor Golden Boy. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but he kept catching himself studying the curve of his jaw, the way the light bounced off of his wire-rimmed glasses, or the way he ran his hands through his hair. He’d only noticed after he received a good few glares from the Gryffindor at being watched. Draco, by mistake, he now saw, thought that perhaps drawing the shorter boy would alleviate his interests, as it did for most people. God, if only.

Draco’s obsession with the physique of the Golden Boy only got worse. He didn’t even have to look at Potter to sketch him, though he often did anyway, he could draw each of and everyone of his features from memory. The drawings began to accumulate, and when the day came to clean dorms for the summer, rather than burn the art, Draco stuffed all of it into his suitcase, and then later under his floorboard.

This continued until fifth year. Draco drew Potter, squirreled them away, and then hid them in a different place when he got close to being found out. He’d never thrown away or burned a single one of his Potter drawings. He chose not to think about this, or what its consequences would be if he was found out. He definitely had to think about them now though, because his father had found out.

The morning mail delivery was the most hectic part of breakfast. With an owl for each student signed in for the Daily Prophet, along with all the owls from families mailing their students, it was a flurry of feathers and screaming first years who hadn’t quite gotten used to the morning bombardment. Draco definitely did not get letters often, once before Christmas break to tell Draco where they’d be staying that year, and that was about it. So he definitely didn’t expect a daunting red envelope to be dropped in his tea by his father's great grey owl. And before he could even get his hands on the parchment to rush it out of the Great Hall, it ripped itself open and started to scream a monologue that flung flecks of earl grey onto Draco’s cheek. As it began, insults flying even from the first lines, the hall fell into silence. Draco sat, prone, with his hands out in front of his chest, staring in bewilderment as the howler shouted,

“DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY.

I’VE NEVER BEEN MORE DISRESPECTED, ASHAMED, DISGUSTED IN MY ENTIRE MORTAL LIFE. I CAN’T EVEN FATHOM HOW YOU COULD DO THIS TO YOURSELF, LET ALONE TO OUR NAME. I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION I SQUEEZED THIS USELESS LITTLE, MUDBLOOD HOBBY OUT OF YOU AS A CHILD, BUT OBVIOUSLY I WAS NOT HARSH ENOUGH. NOT EVEN TO MENTION THE DISGUSTING, ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING SKETCHES OF YOUR FRUITY GOLDEN BOY. I SUPPOSE I SHOULD LET YOU KNOW THAT I THREW THEM INTO THE FIREPLACE WHERE THEY BELONG. DON’T COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, I DON’T WANT A GODDAMN FAIRY IN MY HOME, MUCH LESS IN MY FAMILY. DO NOT CONTACT OUR FAMILY AGAIN.

LUCIUS MALFOY”

There was absolute silence. No one said a word as the letter, now diffused, fell into Draco’s toast. Draco looked at his housemates, and they were disgusted, Pansy and Blaise had long since moved almost a foot from him on the benches. He looked around the hall as he stood, and everyone, everyone was staring. Draco felt dizzy, he stumbled, and then he began to run, head down, in whatever direction his feet would take him. He ran to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and slammed himself against the opposite wall, sinking to the ground clutching his head, he curled into himself.


	2. Separating Dream and Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with what you've been given can't always go smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitely enjoyed writing the dream sequence. and the next chapter's gonna have more character interaction, so stay tuned my dudes. Once again, i do need a beta because i write a lot of this at night and i'm not completely in my right mind, so if you're interested please just comment!!

The trek out of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was not something he’d looked forward to since he stepped in. He’d already missed what was basically a whole day's worth of classes, because he’d only had two lessons and then a free period scheduled for that day. So he was able to assume with some clarity that he would have two detentions stacked up by the time he’d gone to talk to his teachers. He decided to go to Professor McGonagall first.

Stepping into the cold air of the hallway was a bit striking of a contrast compared to how warm the bathroom had come to be. After near hours of hearing nothing but Myrtle’s whispered comforts and his own noisy crying, hearing a noise as sharp as his own tailored shoes on hard stone startled him more than he would’ve liked. The walk to the Transfiguration classroom felt longer than it ever had in the entirety of his time at Hogwarts. Draco took up the time mostly by pushing his hair behind his ears and wiping at lingering tear tracts. He kept an eye out for anyone in the halls, but it seemed more empty on a free period than usual.

His hesitant knock on the Professor’s door came with a sharp ‘It’s open.’ in response. The door creaked open and he saw Professor McGonagall look uncharacteristically undignified for a split second upon seeing the student. Draco’s face warmed at the reaction; he hoped she couldn't see it.

“Professor.”

“Mr. Malfoy. I assume you’re here to pick up the work you missed?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She pulled a textbook from a shelf behind her desk and licked a pointer finger to begin pawing through the book. She lifted a roll of parchment from a pile he’d seen her sorting and gingerly set it in front of him.

“This is the work we did as a class today. I’ll give you the homework now but I would be willing to accept it a reasonable amount of time after it’s standard due date.”

“You’re not giving me detention?”

“Mr. Malfoy, I try my best not to become entrenched in the personal lives of my students. This is a small exception. I’m not giving detention right now but I expect you to be in my classroom on time and the whole time from now on.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re very much welcome, Mr. Malfoy.”

Stepping back out into the hallway, parchment clutched tightly in between shaking fingers, Draco heaved a sigh of relief. Now all that was left was Potions. Which he was dreading more than he normally would have. He had no idea how Professor Snape would react, he was much closer to Draco than the Transfiguration Professor, his opinion was one Draco held in high regard. The worst part was how infamously hard to read the man was… He could be disgusted by him and Draco would never know. Even with all of his doubts, he managed to summon a few rare shreds of Gryffindor-esque courage, and start the long walk to the dungeons.

Draco knew he was at a much higher risk of being seen by his housemates down here, so he clung to corners and hid his head in his robes. Of course Draco’s luck wouldn’t let just that be enough though. Draco was going to be persecuted far sooner than he’d expected.

“Hey, Malfoy! Furnunculus!”

He whipped his head around a bit faster than he should have, because he received a face full of boils and welts. Ducking his head further into his robes, he took off in a sprint, not entirely certain if he was even going the right direction. His face burned, and not even from the boils. People from his own house had already turned on him, and he couldn’t help but think that they’d been influenced by someone to do so. All Draco could do right now was pray it wasn’t anyone he was going to need help from, this thought emerging as he banged on the Potion Professor’s door, bruising his own knuckles.

He felt the door whip air into his face, and didn’t dare bring his gaze up to meet Snape’s. A rough hand was on his back, and in a swift moment he was rushed into the room and the doors were locked. For a moment there was silence, and then he was being escorted to a seat, face still buried in the cotton of his uniform.

“Let me see it, Draco. That’s the only way I can do anything.”

He lifted his face from his sleeve slowly, letting his eyes study Snape’s expression as the Professor frowned and began to dig into his Potion stores.

“You should have gone to the hospital wing for this Draco…”

“I know sir, I was on my way down here when they caught me.”

“I’m not going to ask who it was. I’m just going to say you need to avoid these people if you can, with Umbridge as headmistress there’s not much that can be done. I suggest you find a group of friends who can protect you from these… miscreants more often than I can.”

Draco nodded in agreement and took the potion his Professor had set on the table. He pulled the cork and recoiled at the smell.

“I suggest you drink that slowly, Mr. Malfoy.”

Taking the older man's advice and feeling the potion slide down his throat, he gagged slightly. This might’ve been more painful than the boils had been.

“Professor, I was actually about to come to you for the work I missed.”

“Of course, Draco.”

A marked textbook and several rolls of parchment slammed down in front of him.

“You’ll need all of this. I expect it by next class.”

Draco huffed out a laugh and began to shrink down the work with the rest the McGonagall had given him, and stuff it into the pockets of his robes.

~

That night, after sneaking into his dorm with some difficulty, he stared at the green expanse of the canopy over his bed. Snape was probably right. He’d received some of the iciest stares he’d ever gotten, from people he’d long considered his friends, as he walked into his own common room. Conversation seemed to stop as he entered each new space, leaving him only to go about his business while sneering at anyone who got too close. He’d spent most of that night hunched over homework he usually requested help for from his housemates.

Draco was mulling over his plans for the next day in his head, turning them over in his mind as if examining an object one had owned for all of their life. He’d have to change his schedule, without a doubt. Maybe even craft different routes to each class, if that’s what it took.

The sound of a door slamming open shocked Draco out of his thoughts, and he pulled nervously at his tie as he watched shadows move outside of his bed curtains. His roommates were back, and he could only pray that they’d choose to ignore him for now. He sat in silence, almost chastising himself for being so afraid of people he’d known for all of his life. Surely, they, of all people, wouldn’t turn against him. At most they might just ignore him. He stayed quiet for a couple minutes longer, and as his roommates began to settle in, so did Draco. It probably wouldn’t hurt to sleep in his clothes for one night, anyway. He slung his tie off and loosened his dress shirt, trying to get comfortable without the wood of his bed creaking from under him.

~

Draco was falling. He could feel the air rush past his face and pull on his clothes. His stomach jumped along with the speed of his descent. His outstretched hands did nothing to slow him, they could grab onto nothing. He could feel himself flipping, losing sight of the blinding sun he fell from and looking onto the ground he’d soon be one with. He could feel his eyes being pushed back into their sockets, and he squinted to get a better look at the ground. It wasn’t ground. It was the ocean.

He could smell the salt on the air now, and the sides of his vision got darker as he plunged further to his destination. The water was murky, almost black, and seemed to suck away any sunlight Draco had previously seen. The water’s tendrils splashed up and down, almost reaching up to Draco to pull him deeper.

Draco felt his hands be sucked into the inky black first. Falling deeper, he began to realize what the water really felt like. The water felt like tar, and it didn’t just seem like it was pulling him in, it WAS pulling him in. His entire lower body was engulfed in the liquid. It was nearly impossible to move. Draco struggled to keep his head above the ocean line, clenching his eyes closed as the tar pulled. In a moment, the only thing still above the black was his mouth and his nose. He took in quick gaspy breaths, holding onto any air he could. His chest constricted under the weight of the tar on his torso, and then Draco couldn’t breath anymore. He struggled as hard as he could against the immovable liquid, and then began to tremble as the last bits of air were squeezed from his lungs. He was pulled completely under, and his mouth and nose were filled with tar. It covered every surface of his body, and it took everything he had. The moisture was sucked out of his body, and the tar seemed to constrict as if it were a cobra, and Draco could feel his bones snap.

~

He woke with a painful jolt. He groped at his neck, gasping for air as he realized that he still couldn’t breathe. A thought ran through his head, and if anyone had been listening in on his mind through a legilimens spell it would’ve sounded a bit like this:

Fuck fuck fuck my tie!!! My tie???

Draco pulled at the tie around his throat, pulling the knot out as quickly as he could as he began to cough and hack. Once the constraint was pulled off, he flung it to the end of his bed, it hitting his curtains and sliding down off the bed with a plop. Draco scratched at the stinging on his neck and began to study his surroundings, few though they were, and he was sure of a couple different things:

Draco was in his own dorm, not a tar filled ocean.

Draco was certain he had pulled his tie off before he went to bed.

Draco’s curtains were slightly parted.

His muscles tightened at the realization. He gripped at his wrinkled, uniform pants and tried to steady his breathing. As hard as he urged himself not to jump to conclusions, he could only think the worst. How careful did he really need to be? Because that would have killed him under the right circumstances, he was sure of it. He trembled at the thought, and then cursed himself for it,

Malfoys do not fear assassins.

Then he stiffened. He wasn’t a Malfoy. Under greater thought, he wasn’t even sure if he was a Slytherin in the eyes of his housemates. Draco ran his hands through his hair. Before he even knew what he was doing, he pulled open the dark green curtains. The room, thankfully, was empty. Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle’s textbooks were still scattered around the room, so Draco was able to assume that the school day hadn’t actually started yet.

Perhaps I could just skip breakfast this morning.

His stomach, however, protested at that thought with a loud growl and Draco grumbled back at it. He had no idea how he could think of actually SITTING with the roommates who might’ve tried to kill him. Draco began to gather an extra uniform from his trunk and get dressed. Draco began to comb through different ideas, maybe he could just pop in, grab an apple, fend off the stares, and go eat in the library? Or maybe he could ask Professor Snape to bring him something? The idea of being anywhere near his housemates by his own free will pushed anxiety down into his stomach, and he knew it would show. Idea dismissed. Asking Snape to bring him anything would be risky business, he’d probably just say no, and if his Professor thought he was too weak to be worth helping he might close his doors to Draco. He shook his head. Definitely not.

His mind began to wander as he stacked textbooks on top of each other, and then a thought popped in. Hadn’t Draco overheard a couple of third year Hufflepuffs talking about sneaking into the kitchens? Yeah, of course he had, the Hufflepuff dorms were the closest to the kitchens right? Draco wondered if he could find them. Maybe Hufflepuffs go into the kitchen to eat breakfast sometimes? It was sort of his only hope for food, so he clung to the idea and gathered his things. He wouldn’t be back here for the rest of the day, that was certain.


	3. Following Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Win some, lose some. It didn't matter much to Draco, he was only trying to get by without any huge disasters, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun writing this chapter, it was honestly a bit therapeutic. Still looking for a beta, and I think I've decided on a schedule now. Which means at least one chapter a week until I finish this thing. The way it's going right now, (more slow-burning than expected) we might be looking at a higher chapter number than I thought in the beginning. Can't say anything solid though. Anyways, enjoy!

Draco watched the kitchen door and anyone who walked past it carefully. Sitting in a nook next to a set of stairs, he held his book very close to his face in an attempt to hide any overtly recognizable features, though he felt he might just be making himself look like a moron. He tapped his foot gently on the stone floor, and felt the sharp sensation move through his foot, keeping his eyes on the door. He’d watched many Hufflepuffs walk past the entrance, none of them really noticing him, but he felt that one must eventually go in. His stomach made a low groaning every couple minutes, at which he got increasingly frustrated. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday, and he was desperately hoping for some relief.

At some point, Draco’s mind began to wander. This situation he was in, aside from short term solutions, might haunt him for a very long time. This wasn’t a silly mistake that he could recover from in a couple of days, and he’d dug his own grave, too. He flinched at the memory of his dramatic exit from the great hall the day before. And when looking at what he’d already been reduced to doing, sneaking around the building, avoiding his housemates, he felt justified in concluding that this would go on well past summer. He didn’t even know where he’d be staying during that time. He couldn’t possibly stay at Hogwarts over the summer, right? He’d heard of some people staying over the holidays, but never summer break. Draco never thought he’d find himself wishing that Dumbledore was still headmaster, but he did. He must’ve been easier to talk to than Umbridge, not that Draco ever had.

Draco’s bangs fell into his face, and he brushed them out of the way, with some irritation. At some point, Draco couldn’t remember when anymore, he’d stop styling his hair, and it only seemed to get messier everyday. The idea of messy hair conjured up some unwanted images in Draco's mind. Stupid Potter. Just the thought of him made Draco’s throat tighten and stomach crawl, which only made the hunger feel worse. He’d have to avoid him as much as he’d been avoiding his previous friends, too. What a pain.

The sound of shoes tapping the hard floor shook Draco out of his thoughts, and he jerked his head up, hitting it on a stone beam just above where he’d been hunched. A small blonde girl stepped into his vision, her back facing Draco. She stopped in front of the painting, and Draco strained his eyes to see what exactly she was doing. She reached up to the painting, put her hand against a pear in the fruit-bowl, and began to do an odd spreading of the fingers… She moved them up and down, and oddly enough, the pear began to laugh. A golden door knob appeared out of the convulsing fruit, and the girl turned the knob with considerable skill, considering her height. The painting swung open, and she disappeared inside.

When catching a small glimpse of the magical ovens inside the kitchen, Draco’s stomach gave out a loud roar, and he put his hands over his torso, a displeased look overtaking his face. He looked out the window, and saw that the sun was now in the sky. Breakfast must be mostly over by now, but he had first period free so that wouldn’t be too much of a problem, though he did want to get some studying done… His body made the decision for him. Before he knew it he was already walking towards the painting, his books in hand. He stared up at the pear, and lifted his hand. Tickling the pear felt weird, but Draco did it anyways. When the golden door knob appeared he twisted it open and pushed his body against the heavy door.

The smell overtook Draco. He looked over the room in search of the source and found it almost immediately. The food that sat on the table was fresh, and Draco reached for a croissant before he looked at anything else, shoving it in his mouth and dropping his books on the floor with a careless gesture. He pulled up a small metal chair from the corner of the room, still staring at the food and then began to grab toast and an apple. His hunger satiated, he began to look around. The house elves had hardly acknowledged him, still busy making food for the main breakfast in the hall and even some for lunch. Draco sighed and slumped back in his chair, thinking how good it felt to be ignored out of indifference rather than hostility.

“Oh, hello.”

Draco snapped up, looking around for the owner of the voice. Oh, shit. Draco should’ve known that that girl he watched would still be in here, where else would she be? A sneer overtook his face as he lifted her eyes to meet hers. Bugger. It was Loony Lovegood.

“What do you want, Loony?”

“I was just going to tell you that you’ve got Wrackspurts coming out of your ears.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All it means is that Wrackspurts might be making your brain fuzzy. You should do something to get rid of them.”

Draco blinked at her incredulously, and took another bite out of his toast. The girl pulled another chair and sat next to him, and he couldn’t help but shift away from her slightly. Great. All Draco had wanted was to eat in peace, now this.

“You’re not acting normal.”

Draco’s face began to heat up. What? Of all people, who was she to criticize Draco for not acting ‘normal’?

“You’re one to talk, Loony.”

Draco flinched at how lame his own comeback was and watched as she pulled an orange from a bowl and began to peel it, setting the slices down in a circular pattern.

“Did something happen?”

“Are you making fun of me or something?”

“It’s just not normal for you to be in here, I’m usually the only one.”

Oh. She wasn’t there. Of course.

“I’d rather not explain, I’ve already done enough of that.”

“That’s fine.”

They sat there, Luna slowly eating the orange slices and Draco, gripping the apple in his hands, too nervous to take a bite. His hands shook, and he cursed himself for being so anxious around someone so insignificant. Come to think of it, hadn’t he been like this with Snape and McGonagall too? God, what was happening to him. Not even a day in, he was already a walking disaster. He slammed the apple down on the table.

“You know, if you eat the apple instead of beating it up it might stop your shakes. At least, that’s what I’ve found.”

Draco’s face heats up, and he’s almost certain she can see it, so he buries his face in his sleeve, and says,

“Okay, I’ll tell you.”

She looks at him and smiles a wispy smile, before putting down her food and turning towards Draco, while settling into her chair. It looks like Draco might not get that studying done after all.

~

The explanation was long winded and Draco had to stop several times to brace himself, but he told her everything. And once he looked up to meet her eyes, he found something odd, and embarrassing. She was still smiling. She looked at Draco almost like a parent, and he almost thought she was about to pat his head with a motherly pride when she said,

“That sort of thing happens to me sometimes.”

Draco shook his head disbelievingly at the concise and vague answer. God, Loony Lovegood is a confusing character.

“That’s it?”

“Do you want me to say anything else?”

That gave Draco pause. He supposed there wasn’t anything else he DID want her to say. She was someone Draco could relate to now. Shit. Luna Lovegood was someone Draco could relate to now. Draco swallowed the lump in his throat, and looked at the clock. He still had about thirty minutes until his Divination class.

“Can you tell me about the times things like that have happened to you?”

She turned towards him again, smile dropping off her face and then began to speak in a low voice,

“There was this one time where…”

~

Draco listened to his steps ring out on the stairs as he climbed, pumping his legs a bit faster than he normally would have. He wanted to get to Divination early so he could get a seat with someone he knew wouldn’t talk to him too much. He knew he’d be stirring up the natural seating arrangement of the class, but it was a small price to pay so that he didn’t have to sit next to Blaise, as he usually did. All the Slytherins usually took seats in the front of the room, because those were the only ones typically left and they made a point of being slightly late. His textbooks ached on his arms, and he was beginning to regret taking all of his stuff out of the room in the morning. But he banished those thoughts away, citing the fact that he’d have to repeatedly go back if he’d not taken everything, and that could get him into something he didn’t want to be involved in.

In a moment, he was pushing open the heavy wooden door at the top of the spiral staircase, and taking in the room before him. The only people there were two Hufflepuffs, a small group of Ravenclaws and… Lo and behold, Harry fucking Potter. Draco exhaled quickly from his nose, and pulled his gaze away from the boy, keeping his head down as he made his way to the back of the room to sit next to a suddenly uncomfortable Ravenclaw girl. He ignored her stare and set his books next to his feet, pawing at some dice that had been laid out on the table.

He stayed like that for a little while, not daring to look up as students filled the room. He only lifted his eyes when Trelawney began to speak in that high, whispery tone of hers.

“Now, I’m sure you all see the dice I’ve put on the table for you. These will be integral to your lesson today. Now, who can tell me what relevance these dice could possibly have to seeing the future?”

A familiar nasally voice spoke up from a couple rows in front of Draco, and he rolled his eyes at the sound, almost completely out of habit.

“Well I’m sure they can be used to discover the state of your luck, Professor Trelawney.”

“Not exactly, Ms. Granger. You see class, these dice we will be using today are here to determine whether or not the Gods are on your side.”

There was a palpable cynicism in the room, and you could hear the class heave a collective sigh. Trelawney had been given a second chance by Umbridge on account of some extensive begging on her part, so the teacher was acting much more serious about her job as of recent events than anyone in the class was used to. Some of the kinder students were acting a bit softer on her than normal, indulging her and volunteering help around the classroom, and others were pushing harder than ever to be uncooperative in hopes to get her fired for good. Most of the Slytherins were in the latter, while Granger was in the former. Right now, Draco was just hoping that this lesson wouldn’t require too much student interaction.

As she gave the class instructions, Draco finished them faster than many of the other students, who were still chattering with their friends, and he soon found himself waiting for everyone else to catch up. He sat there, tapping his fingers on the table and scribbling some doodles in the corners of his parchment. God, he’d never noticed how boring classes can really be when you don’t have anyone to talk to.

Professor Trelawney began to make her way around the room to see the recorded rolls of dice when everyone finished. She stopped at each student, giving most a short, one word, analysis of their dice rolls. Until she reached Potter. She stopped at his table, looked over Weasley and Granger's results with little interest, and then turned to him decisively. She pulled his parchment closer and scanned it quickly. She seemed to heave back and suppress a low gasp in her throat when she said,

“Abysmal, absolutely awful. You haven’t perhaps committed any acts of heresy recently have you? Perhaps fairly significant ones?”

The boy shook his head and she put her hand on her chest, as if centering herself.

“No matter. I’m sure this will fade. Yes. Gods can be forgiving sometimes.”

She didn’t sound especially sure of herself, but she moved on despite that, continuing down the line. As she reached Draco, he found himself getting more and more nervous. He normally loved attention, but it didn’t seem like the best thing to get so much of it right now.

She stepped to his table, assessing the Ravenclaw girl’s results next to him and then looked at his parchment with some interest. Her eyes seemed to glass over slightly, and Draco slumped down, trying to hide himself from any onlookers.

“My boy, I’m very sorry.”

She snatched up the dice from his hand, and then walked over to the next area. Draco found himself shocked. He hid his face, ignoring the Ravenclaw once again staring at him, and began to put his things away. Class would be over soon anyways.


	4. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry often thought about his scars. He detested them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV! New POV! The Umbridge quotes in this chapter are both variations on the same quote, those being the book Vs. the movie, but I felt they worked well in conjunction! I've got a beta now, @MomentaryLossOfPoint , so the sentence structure and grammar in this chapter are a step up from the previous ones, which I'm very excited about!! Also, in the next coming chapter, it'll be in Draco's POV again, and he's not gonna be on the same time as Harry, meaning it'll be sort of in the past compared to this one, but they'll sync up eventually.

Harry often thought about his scars. He detested them. Not just the most broadcasted one on his forehead, displaying his status as the chosen one to all, but the others too. The ones from his Uncle, and of course, the ones carved into his hands by his own will.

As he traced the curved and raised scabs on his hands, he could almost feel himself being pulled back into the anxiety and queasiness of the moment he realized what was going on with that quill. He could hear Umbridge’s squeaky voice drifting into his ears, goading him into continuing.

“Yes, Mr. Potter, it seems, deep down inside, you know you deserve this.”

His fears rose into his throat as he remembered the noises of the room, and how he was forced to grip the table cloth until his knuckles whitened just so he didn’t flinch every time he brought the quill down to the parchment. A deep pit settled in his stomach when he remembered this. The involuntary reaction to the experience was almost always to lay his head into his hands and banish all thoughts from his mind. He never told anyone of the incident, and these were his most hidden scars.

It seemed, with so little, Umbridge had somehow managed to penetrate his inner mind so efficiently. She spoke so often of punishment. And punishment was something Harry had a nasty history with. It followed him wherever he went, dished out by people whether they had authority over Harry or not. It didn’t matter, because they felt that Harry deserved it.

“As I told you, Mr. Potter, naughty children deserve to be punished.”

Harry rubbed at his temples. When he thought about the scars he could feel them prickle. That was the worst thing about them. They reminded Harry they were there, and that they would never go away. The scars from his uncle's belt on his back were faint in color, but they were raised very slightly from his skin. The scar on his forehead was not raised, but it was a dark red, and grew even more inflamed when Voldemort was resurrected. The newest set, ‘I must not tell lies.’, are still bright red scabs.

Harry felt that Umbridge and Voldemort were very similar. Even if she wasn’t affiliated with the Death Eaters, Harry couldn’t help but group them together in his mind. Both sought to make his life a living hell, and they were both successful in their own ways. They both hung over his mind, like a looming hurricane waiting to form and finally take him out.

Harry felt a warm drip down his chin. He pulled open his eyes and lifted his hand to meet his mouth. He’d ripped his own lip open with his teeth. Letting out a sharp breath, Harry did a one-eighty turn on his heels to sprint to the bathroom.

The sun was in the process of setting, and light shined in from the wall-length windows of the castle. It was fairly warm, for late-fall weather anyways. It warmed his scalp through his hair, and he struggled to resist the temptation of shrugging the top layer of robes off of his shoulders. Umbridge always seemed to know where he was, and the most recent decree, numbered now in the hundreds, enforced more rules on uniforms than ever. Harry traced the lines in the stone walls with his fingers, keeping his head turned away from anyone who happened to pass by.

Harry had become something of an isolationist recently, avoiding talking with anyone but the Army. Oh yeah, Dumbledore's Army. They were supposed to meet soon, and that got Harry a little nervous. He wasn’t sure how much more he could teach them that they didn’t already know. Sure he was the Chosen One and all that, but what had he really done other than get very, very lucky at a couple of key moments in his life? He knew a couple extra spells from Lupin and Snape and that was about it. Harry really wished Lupin was still here; he would’ve been leading the Army under these circumstances for sure. He’d thought over a couple spells he’d heard of that he thought he could teach himself quickly and then pass onto them, but nothing stood out as an especially good idea. Maybe he could just have them practice more Patronuses? Some people still weren’t quite finished with that.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom while still mulling over these thoughts, stepping over a puddle on the floor. The bathroom was quieter than the other times he’d been in here, though that could just be because it didn’t contain any children messing with Polyjuice Potion or trolls at the moment. He let his eyes adjust to the damp, dark room and walked over to the mirrors.

Pulling at his lip, he saw that he did indeed break some skin. It didn’t look especially deep, but there was blood running down his chin. He pulled some toilet paper from a stall to wipe it off. Hunched over the sink, he pawed at his mouth and inspected his scar. Inflamed, as always. Since Voldemort had come back the sharp pain he used to feel as spikes of energy from the Dark Lord had now calmed to a constant, aching stab in his forehead. Still bad, but not as bad as it could be.

A small breeze blew past Harry’s back. He stiffened, straining his eyes into the mirror to see who or what had emerged from behind him. It was quiet for a moment. He then relaxed, dismissing his worries as paranoia. He was told by Ron and Hermione that he’d been acting a bit overly paranoid, and Harry was annoyed by that, but he couldn’t help feeling that this might be what they were talking about. As he turned on the not-often-used faucet, it squeaked loudly in protest. The water wasn’t as cold as the rest of the castle’s but it would have to do. Splashing a few quick spritzes of the liquid onto his face, he cleared his mind. Making eye contact with himself in the mirror, he was discontent with what he saw. He had some intense eye bags, and his hair wasn’t even charmingly messy. It was just greasy and messy.

Stretching his arms behind his head, he started his stride out of the bathroom, when he heard a few girlish giggles from the stall behind him.

“Myrtle?”

The stall door swung open, seemingly of its own accord, and revealed Myrtle sitting on top of one of the toilets. She let out another long giggle and batted her eyelashes at Harry.

“Hello Harry, have you come to visit poor, pitiful Moaning Myrtle?”

“I was just washing my face-”

“Been doing any more life-ruining lately?”

Harry blinked at her and shook his head incredulously. She gave out a slightly sinister giggle and said,

“That’s what the sad little, blond boy told me. He said you ruined his life. You know he’s very pretty when he’s sad, not so much so when he’s angry.”

“Myrtle, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Which blond boy?”

She smiled and set her head on her hands, leant towards Harry with her elbows on her knees and giggled,

“Just the one who got disowned over howler during breakfast. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten? I know you were there, HE told me. Made quite a big fuss to me about it, actually.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Watch your language, Golden Boy.”

Harry hated that nickname, and flinched a bit when Myrtle spat it out, baring her teeth at him. Draco Malfoy. He’d been the main subject of the Hogwarts rumor mills lately. It was honestly hard to avoid. He also had been pushing himself to forget how he was mentioned in the howler as “Fruity Golden Boy”, though he’d just been reminded, thanks to Myrtle.

When the letter had arrived, Harry hadn’t been paying any mind to the Slytherin table, rather, he was desperately leafing through his DADA textbook to study for the exam Umbridge had laid out. She continued to be a teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts, even past the point of becoming the Headmistress. But most of her ‘teaching’ was just her throwing work at them and telling them when a test was, exiting the room with a flock of Slytherin prefects directly after. Come to think of it, Malfoy had been in that posse that followed her around like guard dogs for some time. Though, Harry supposed he wasn’t anymore.

The moment Harry heard the first shout of the howler, he thought it very odd for the noise to be coming from the Slytherin table. Most howlers were directed towards Hufflepuff and Gryffindor students, usually about grades or some prank the student went too far with. But as this one continued, more and more people around Harry went silent, and he could see why. He turned to the source of the noise, only to witness a stunned Malfoy being howled at by the floating letter. As soon as he knew who had received the mail, Harry really began to tune in:

“-DISGUSTING SKETCHES OF YOUR FRUITY GOLDEN BOY. I SUPPOSE I SHOULD LET YOU KNOW THAT I THREW THEM INTO THE FIREPLACE WHERE THEY BELONG. DON’T COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, I DON’T WANT A GODDAMN FAIRY IN MY HOME, MUCH LESS IN MY FAMILY. DO NOT CONTACT OUR FAMILY AGAIN.”

When the letter fell back to the table, lifeless, Malfoy stumbled back, a confused and scared look on his face. He moved his gaze around the room, and Harry felt his gaze lock with Malfoy’s before he saw it. That moment, the boy hung his head, and began to bound out of the room, opening and shutting the Great Hall door with a resounding bang.

Myrtle was still staring at Harry, and his mouth hung open, remembering the event all at once with a sharp intake of breath. She looked at him for a short moment longer, and then said with a giggle,

“I see from your fly catcher that you DO remember!”

Harry shut his mouth, and pulled down on his sleeves, unconsciously hiding his quill scars.

“Yes Myrtle, I do remember. But I don’t exactly think it’s fair to say I ruined his life.”

“But he IS in love with you isn’t he? And isn’t that why his father disowned him?”

Harry felt his limbs go weak and his stomach dropped in his chest. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid when he studied non-stop. Harry KNEW that Draco liked him at least enough to draw him as much as his father said, but he didn’t want to think about it.

“I- I don’t want to talk to you about this.”

Harry began to tread out of the bathroom, pumping legs fast, when Myrtle shouted out with some glee,

“Then who WILL you talk to about it? Him? Your friends?”

“NO ONE, Myrtle, no one. When everyone moves past this it’ll be OUT of my life.”

“It won’t be out of HIS life though, will it?”

Harry clenched his fist and stopped in his tracks. God, if only you could hit a ghost. He took a deep breath and spun back around on his heels to spit out,

“Look, I know you’re dead and you’ve got nothing better to do than harass people who happen to pass by but if you don’t fucking step off then-”

“Have you SEEN how they’ve treated him so far? It hasn’t even been a week and he’s been to the hospital wing four times, you’d think that someone so universally hated by the Slytherin house, teachers, and Daily Prophet alike would have some empathy for-”

“Shut up, Myrtle. Please, just don’t talk to me about this.”

“Who will then?”

Harry rubbed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He hadn’t even seen Malfoy outside of classes in days. He had no idea where he went when he wasn’t in class, though he supposed he couldn’t go to the Slytherin common room, if he’d really been treated as badly as Myrtle said so. Why should he even be worried about Malfoy? He had his own enemies to fight off, he wasn’t exactly getting the best treatment from everyone around him either. Did the Slytherin really become an outcast that fast? Harry couldn’t possibly imagine anything that would turn Ron and Hermione on him as fast as Malfoy had been cast out by his own. He must’ve never had real friends in those people if it all went bad so quickly.

Harry could feel sadness tinge the edges of his mind as he thought about what sort of life the boy could possibly lead now. He pulled his gaze away from Myrtle to stare at his feet. The movement of the wind signaled that she was now next to Harry, and Harry began to trudge to the edge of a window sill next to a stall to sit down. Myrtle piped up, stating her thoughts with more real emotions than Harry had ever heard out of her,

“I just feel like I understand him somehow. His situation, wasn’t- isn’t exactly unlike mine. I- I just think that maybe if someone had talked to me about my problems then- then I might not have ended up dead. As strange as that may sound.”

“It doesn’t sound strange, Myrtle. I think I understand what you’re saying.”

“I do think your acquaintanceship, at least, might offer him a layer of protection he would be without otherwise. I don’t want to sound like I’m blowing this out of proportion, but he’s been really rough lately. I’m afraid it will escalate without intervention. That Lovegood girl can only do so much for him, you know?”

“Luna Lovegood is friends with Malfoy?”

“I think so. He talks about her like he used to with his Slytherin friends, when he had good, or at least cordial, relationships with them.”

“Huh.”

“So?”

“I just suppose I’ll have to think about it.”

“Please do.”


End file.
